


they can't black out the moon

by garden of succulents (staranise)



Series: Jack's Excessively Detailed Historical Sexual Fantasies [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Fear of Discovery, Frottage, Jack's sexual fantasies frequently include worldbuilding, M/M, manual sex, mild dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 16:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12461775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staranise/pseuds/garden%20of%20succulents
Summary: Bitty wants to keep things secret from the boys, and Jack imagines:1943, Nazi-occupied France. He's an SOE agent on the run, hiding in a barn crawlspace less than two feet high with an injured American reconaissance pilot.They can't be found. They can't beheard.





	they can't black out the moon

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains mild dubcon: In Jack's fantasy, Bitty is a bit disoriented as to time and place (though enthusiastic about the sex), and Jack kisses him before knowing he's okay with it.

The American pilot wakes up feverish the next morning, asking if Jack is from Atlanta, if he came home with one of his cousins. He claims to have only temporarily forgotten that they're in France, and when Jack asks to look at his wound, he says vaguely, "Right. I was wondering why it hurt so much."

Jack turns around, slowly reversing in the twenty inches of headroom this crawlspace leaves him, and peels back the bandages over the man's thigh. The flesh is pink and warm and Jack doesn't like the smell. He bites his lip as he folds the gauze over, trying to lap the unbloodied edges together to soak up what's weeping from the wound now. 

He had a Resistance contact in the village nursing station, who might have been able to smuggle Jack sterile tweezers, antiseptic, more bandages; but even before Anette had been captured, stealing penicillin would have been a major undertaking. The Germans guarded it like precious gold, separate from the rest of the dispensary. Buying some on the black market would take a week or more, relying on weekly market schedules, and cost the rest of the money Jack brought into the country with him. It would be almost as much work as what Jack's been doing to get them out of France altogether; smaller cargo, but as much travel, as many people.

"Awfully forward of you, handsome" the American says dreamily, as Jack reaches inside his slit-open trouser leg to feel for the end of the bandage that secured the gauze pad to his thigh.. He giggles, then abruptly hisses with pain as the trouser leg brushes up against his wound. 

As Jack keeps reaching, catching the end with his fingertips, he whimpers another protest. And then the dogs in the yard start barking. 

"What's that?" the American asks, blinking at the cracks in the wall that let in light. "What's that noise?"

The sound was a bicycle stopping, the gate to the yard opening; the sound is the front door of the cottage opening, a German voice saying, " _Heil Hitler!"_ But it was distant; from the lack of change in the American's face, he didn't hear it. " _Quiet!_ " Jack hisses, his hands frozen on the bandage.

"What?" the American asks, horrifyingly loud, and Jack lets go, scrabbles around, climbs arm-over-arm like he's crawling under barbed wire to get to the man's mouth as fast as he can and get a hand over it.

" _Germans,_ " Jack hisses into his ear. " _Nazis._ Stay still." The flesh under his hand is worryingly clammy; the eyes in front of his dart back and forth restlessly. Just as concerning, the little girl in the yard is protesting, almost arguing, following the German soldiers who are coming around the house. _Go back, go back,_ he thinks, afraid he's going to see her murder in front of his very eyes; thankfully she does, running into the house.

They're coming into the barn. The American under his hand starts to whisper another question.

Half-frantic, Jack pulls his hand away and kisses him. No chaste peck, no question; the kind of rude and over-familiar motion that feels _indecent_ with a stranger, sealing his mouth over the other man's.

God, probably the worst move he could have made. The man's going to pull back, cry out in alarm, bring attention to this marginal gap between the ceiling of the barn and the floor of the hayloft, and net these soldiers an American pilot and a Jewish spy for the British Empire. And Jack can't see _anything_ going on in the barn below.

"Go back in the house, Marie," the farmer says, coming out the back door. Boots click on the old, age-worn stone, and cattle lift their heads, hopeful dinner has come early. The American whines infinitesimally, trying to breathe with his mouth occupied, and shifts under Jack.

"Your lifestock are required for military purposes," one of the Germans says below. 

A hand comes up to rest on his shoulder. And then, appallingly, unbelievably, a hesitant tongue reaches out between two sets of parted teeth and brushes Jack's.

 _Quiet,_ Jack thinks, trying not to breathe. _Quiet, quiet, quiet._ He tries not to make a sound, tries to get better advantage if he needs to subdue the other man, and puts enough weight on one arm to bring his hand up to his mouth, pull back and put a finger over his lips. The American nods.

From below: "You're taking my cows?"

"Your livestock are required for military purposes," the soldier repeats, as though that's the only French he knows. It may very well be.

"Oh..." the farmer says, and Jack almost thinks he hears relief under the alarm. Dairy cows gone is bad, is a disaster, is the family possibly starving over the winter to come; but on the other hand, if they're here for the cows and not the men hiding in the barn, nobody on this farm will be dragged out of their house and shot.

If this isn't a ruse. If Jack and the pilot aren't found. If Jack can keep the American quiet.

Jack hears footsteps almost directly underneath him, and carefully puts his lips over the American's again.

The pilot sighs beneath him, golden eyelashes dropping against Jack's thumb. His head relaxes against the hand Jack was going to use to hold it still, if he needed to keep the man from struggling and making noise. Now Jack cups it more gently, the soft plush of a fresh military haircut bristling against his palm.

The man... is not opposed to this kiss. His mouth is open, receiving him, but also busy in its motion against Jack's lips, searching for a little bit of friction. He's very careful on the release, not making any of the wet suction noises of a kiss hurriefly released, but then hungry for another one.

He can't remember that he's not in Georgia, but he can remember that his kisses shouldn't be audible to anyone more than a foot away. He speaks neither French nor German, but he knows how to use his tongue. And he's been shot through the thigh, but his other leg draws up, falls open as he urges Jack closer into his body. Closer into the cock that's as hard as Jack's is.

Oh, hell. This is going to be complicated.

As the first cow's hooves scrape over old stone while a German soldier leads her out, Jack tries to stifle a sharp exhalation and the American keeps moving down his jaw. Fingers lushly buried in Jack's hair, he tries to reach Jack's neck, his earlobe, and lays his stubbled jaw against Jack's throat and collarbone while he breathes out.

The soldiers come back in for the next cow and Jack reaches for another kiss. The exposive liability lying underneath him is an absolute menace, tactically speaking, but he knows to wait for them to pass back out of the barn before he drops his head to the floor and let out a silent, shaking sigh.

It leaves the golden-brown column of his neck bare. Jack is alarmed. But at the same time...

Things happened, during air raids. You ignored things, packed into the house's cellar for hours on end while the ceiling shook and the light batteries grew dim. Jack had resolutely kept his head on his rolled-up jacket and ignored the dark corner behind him three times before somebody reached for him, and when it happened--

 _When you might die at any minute,_ he'd thought, and unbuttoned his trousers for the hands roaming over his chest and legs.

And the American is silent, barely breathing, as Jack kisses his Adam's apple, brushes his lips over those tender, vibrant veins, those tendons standing alert and eager. The American knows they have to be quiet, biting his lip at first, then reaching up to catch his sleeve in his teeth. Jack shifts over him, bearing his hips down into the other man's. He sets a slow rhythm of them together, rubbing together in a way that's not desperate or demanding. It's just...

 _I would die for you,_ he thinks, looking down at that face, bright restless eyes, slick lips sometimes pursed, sometimes panting open. _I would give anything to let you live,_ he thinks with every part of his body, as certain death walks beneath them.

And he's there, he's holding him, pressing him against his shoulder, when the man gasps and makes a rictus almost like pain; holds him close, presses a palm over the bulge in his pants, and lets him gently buck and grind under it until the climax comes.

Jack does briefly think about how undignified it would be, if they were found, dragged out and shot, now, with some small evidence of deviancy on them; but death has hounded him so many times he sets his teeth in his lip anyway, takes his cock in his hand with the pilot breathing in his ear, and strokes himself to completion. The smell fills the tiny space, but the Germans gather the cows and their ropes and lead them away.

It's for that reason, perhaps, that Jack crawls to the edge of the trapdoor to the hiding place, to take the risk of pulling it open when the farmer cames out and send a thumbs-up down to him instead of letting him poke his head up into the little hole. Better not to let the man know what's happening between the Allied combatants he's hiding in his barn.

And after all that, Jack reties the bandage.

"Think you oughta buy a fella dinner first," the American whispers, grinning at him with a blush staining his cheeks.

"All right," Jack promises, crawling back alongside him and whispering back. "The moment we're back on Allied soil. First mess I see. I'll take you." And he will; it's the plan uppermost in his mind. He ignores all the risks against them, infection and capture and misfortune and betrayal, because he is getting this man out of France even if it's quite literally the last thing he does. And if it _isn't_ the last thing he does, then when they're beyond risk of capture, he wants to know all the things it's too dangerous to learn about now. Unit; mission; hometown; _name..._

And that's what he thinks about, tucked away in the Haus, having parked his car down the block and snuck in late at night. Nobody had stirred as he crept to Bitty's room, and Bitty had only rolled over, murmured sleepily, as Jack closed the door.

It had delighted him more than anything else had, when Bitty let Jack spoon against him, murmured again, and gone back to sleep. Sex was one thing, sex could happen under a lot of situations; comfort and _trust_ were harder.

He'd slip out when the Haus emptied out for am practice. Be in Providence before anybody noticed he was gone. If Bitty needed to keep this secret, that was a game Jack could play.


End file.
